Grimm Tales by John Kenyon Page A

stood.
    A figure filled the door. Wallace stared at him, his fist clenched around something more than just anger.
    â€œI knew those two niggas you left on my floor.”
    C.B. tensed in his gut, thought he might puke. Of course Wallace knew who they were and of course he knew where they lived. C.B. had spent the night proving, in bright neon signs, the reasons he wasn’t ready for a job like this one.
    Wallace held up his closed fist, opened his fingers like a rose blossom—the red coating his hand made a beautiful bloom. Pinched between his thumb and forefinger was a small triangle of dark flesh and a diamond in the center.
    â€œShouldn’t leave a rock this big behind. Must be worth something.” C.B. opened his mouth but no words came out. For the second time that night his brain had become clogged with information. Wallace did all the talking. “Know what I think? Piece of shit must be glass.”
    Wallace stepped forward slowly, no gun out, no knife. Only a rock-hard stare and a lifetime of putting down punks like C.B. kept the young man in his place. The way Wallace stared at C.B. as he advanced made him feel like he was being measured for a coffin.
    Coal Black stood frozen, resigned to his fate. Never should have tried to dance with royalty. He belonged in the basement, soot on his face, sweat on his brow. A servant to the end.
    Wallace held out the ear, reached forward and put it back where it used to attach to his body.
    â€œIt fits,” Wallace said.
    C.B. watched as Wallace reached behind him and drew the gun from his waistband. The same cannon from before, still smelling of fresh gunpowder as Wallace rested it under C.B.’s nose.
    C.B. closed his eyes, waited for the sweet ever after.

Sing a Song of Sixpence
    By Nigel Bird
    â€œSing a Song of Sixpence” was first printed in 1744. Imagine that. In that version it was four-and-twenty naughty boys who were baked in the pie. As a rhyme, I found it impossible to resist when I first found out about John’s competition. Birds in pies, a king counting his ill-gained money, a nose pecked off and put back again; in short, all the rich ingredients to make a satisfying tale (or at least that’s what I’d hoped). Come and see what happens when the birds are released this time around. Wouldn’t it be great if someone was quoting this story 300 years from now?
    Cargo.
    Something moved from one place to another.
    Doesn’t matter much what it is as long as it gets there.
    Danny’s in the business of moving things. Enjoys the regular work and the chance to get out and about. Bags time in the sun and stacks of duty free. Even gets to try out the merchandise when he fancies.
    If there wasn’t a downside, it’d be perfect.
    Whatever spin you put on it, getting caught on the job would be a downside. That and having to work for Charlie “the arse hole” Wren.
    Would have given it up if he hadn’t been reckless and fallen for the boss’s daughter.
    But St. Chris has been good to him. Never had an accident and only got stopped at customs the time he had a flat tyre.
    Knows his history and all, our Danny. Result of spending all that time poolside with his books. Understands that folk have been stealing people since time began.
    It’s what made his country great. That and tea and football.
    Knows about Liverpool, too. All those fine buildings fronting up the Mersey built on the blood of Africa.
    Sing a song of sixpence a pocketful of rye
    Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie
    He could see the Liver birds gleaming in the bright sunlight as he drove through the city centre. Cursed his luck that the air-con had packed up on the hottest day of the year.
    Least he had a window to open.
    Poor buggers in the back just had to suffer.
    They must have been baking in there, but it wasn’t as if he could let them out for a stroll. Anyone got a whiff of what he was up to and they’d have him behind